Let's get sappy for a moment...shall we?

It's a Saturday afternoon and I am, for once, struggling to find some sort of satisfaction with bitching and whining. In my quest to prove my emotional, and intellectual, superiority (duh!), I have become quite critical. Outside, the snow is coming down like the Prom Queen's dress. Last night I was standing, well, more like sitting, (but I was standing in spirit - broken leg, you know), in front of the window in my apartment watching the snow fall. I haven't seen it come down like that in a long time...maybe not even since I was just a fetus riding in my Mommy's tummy to the hospital to be born. And yes, I could see then. I was very gifted. Like Jesus, or Superman. Have we had this conversation before? Anyway, the snow was coming down hard last night, and it's supposed to come down even-harder tonight.

Today is my favorite kind of day. It's cloudy and the snow is still falling, only with a little less intensity than last night's blizzard. I am laying in bed, resting quietly with good ol' Squirrel Bill Football, who seems quite content to cuddle and 'clean' herself with a drenching of her own cat-food flavoured saliva. All things equal, I'm glad that she's happy. I've always felt, and Squirrel agrees, that a good blanket of snow or cat-drool, seems to somehow set today apart from yesterday. Not to get all philosophical, n'stuff, but it seems to me that the snow gives us a natural break from 'the daily grind'. It's a legitimate opportunity to stop running around in the car, and maybe, to just park our asses in a good upholstered spot and relax. It just doesn't seem right to contemplate the 'real' world right now - I think I'd rather stay fat and happy by thinking about things that are warm and fuzzy in my brain.

So I've turned off the TV. I'm sick of calling Tyra Banks an "undeserving, monster-foreheaded, Diva whore" to anyone who will listen. And I'm over telling FOX News to "Fuck Off, You!". It's time to lay back and maybe read a book that doesn't discuss the deliberative nature and propriety of a polarized polity. It has been a long time since the days in which I wandered into my parents room, lying down on their bed for a change. I usually shared the space with the dog, and found myself buried in a novel that I WANTED to read. I've always had an imagination and I really liked it when I 'knew' what Bilbo Baggins looked like, instead realizing that I had sadly mistaken that Bilbo Baggins is, in fact, a somewhat androgenous aging suburbanite, who looks like he's still on the fence about his sexuallity - Thank You, Peter Jackson.

I can remember spending one late winter's Sunday lying on my parents bed reading Native Son by Richard Wright. I guess it's no Harry Potter and The Warlock's Testicle, but Native Son, for as dense as it was, and as dumb as I am, sure managed to open my eyes to a lot of things. I'm sure we've all had these moments before, but I remember seeing the re-orang-ellow Wisconsin sunset coming through the lace curtains that mother made, and feeling like I had actually understood something in a way that maybe no one had. It was pretty cool feeling for a High School kid. Now, I'm pretty sure I cried a lot back then, but teenage-girl antics aside, there is nothing like taking the time to settle into reading a good book. You know...like the ones that are worth burning or banning.

I think that I lounged on that bed for a good six, maybe eight, hours without ever getting up. I can remember feeling dizzy, like I had just gotten dome for the first time. I haven't had that in a while. And, no Dad, I'm not talking about head...and that's none of damn business anyway! I'm talking about reading a good book. Like the ones our high school teachers always encouraged us to read, but that we never bothered to pick up becuase we were too busy jerking off and treating eachother like shit.

High school miseries aside, I think that now might be a good time to find the best memory-filled natural lighting and drag my sopping wet, and happy, kitty into my lap to read a good book. None of that neo-romanticism David Sedaris crap, (even though I dug a couple of his last ones), but the stuff that our parents were supposed to read when they were hippies and beatniks. You know, books that discussed issues of more importance than Anna Nicole Smith's acquiescence to terminal stupidity. Now go! You masses read a book, burn a bra, and eat a vegetable.

Keepin' it creepy.

I'm back...finally! I've been away from the ol' blog for a while now due to a little mishap involving ice and my subpar physical and mental capabilities. In other words, I broke my leg whilst ice-skating. For those of you who know me well, this may well come as a surprise; especially since I have played ice hockey for the last 20, or so, years. Maybe this is why I didn't go any further than I did...hmmm.

So the story goes as follows - Me go ice skate. Me fall down. Me break leg. Me go hospital. Hospital people manhandle footsie. Me hobble for week on crutches. Me sleep no good. Me go back to hospital. Hospital doctors test new power tools from Christmas time. Dr. Hatred laugh hard. Me in more pain. Me have two new woodscrews driven through leg bones. Me sad.

That's the story. Hope you enjoyed it.